“Uncomfortably Numb”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Heartbreak.

Recently, I read a column by my friend Cheryl Kelly on this vexing woe. As with her past material, the piece was written in an honest and expressive style. I have always admired her ‘realism’ in print. But afterward, I pondered an unintended consequence of having looked at the manuscript – a personal realization of sorts. Instead of feeling this emotional agony gnawing at the core of myself, I was blank on the subject.

Strangely and undeniably numb.

It was easy to observe that this condition must have been precipitated by more years having passed for myself. Or perhaps, it resulted because of the two failed marriages that had filled much of my life. Yet while searching for some evidence of cause and effect, I slipped backward into my original realization. Regardless of the reasons involved, I felt nothing.

My heart had gone dead.

I reckoned that confessing such a reality might seem depressing to readers. So it is something I have never addressed on the printed page. Some could see this as a coping mechanism, or a defensive posture. Maybe even a strategy to gain protective isolation. But for this writer, the knowledge of my numbness arrived with a curious sense of detachment.

I did not choose the path. But here I walk.

Romantic inclinations had long since disappeared from my personal routine. Instead, I felt a certain fondness for old memories, without the ability to yearn for what had gone before. I could remember, but not revisit those days in the flesh.

Ecstasy and betrayal share a similar connection to the heart. Direct and hot-wired. Their ability to move us forward or back is a function of vulnerability offered up as a sacrifice to gods of passion and love. A heart not opened can never feel the full measure of joy. Yet if the coin flips, on the other side is hurt and despair. A kind of desolation that robs the sky of daylight and leaves the soul to wither away in darkness.

Somehow, my own spirit had channeled that darkness into energy.

Many years ago, in New York, I once returned home off-schedule, to surprise my girlfriend with a bit of extra time we could share. I had planned on a summer excursion with music, flowers and wine. But upon arriving at our house, I found her in bed with a man I did not recognize. The experience was shocking to inherit as a young man. Still, from a perspective of years, I remember it more as a reconnaissance mission. A bit of education that left me sadder but wiser. My head and heart filled with something that I needed to know about the truth of our relationship. Decades later, I stumbled upon similar emotions in my second marriage. This time, the burning in my heart had a wholly different character. Instead of shock, I felt the numbness take hold. My head bowed and nodded with familiarity as silent words came to mind. “Yes, I should have known… I should have known.”

The difference between struggling for skills to manage heartbreak itself, and the quiet sense of acceptance that I felt personally, seemed to be a divide most likely caused by age. My own emotional core had simply taken more lightning strikes over the course of time. More bruises, more scars. More nights waking up from frightful dreams with tears streaming from my eyes. More fits of anguish. More lonely hours suffocating in the harsh reality of nothing.

Still, everyone does not react in the same way to similar events. I knew this truism to be accurate.

So once again, I returned to my sobering vision of self. A mirror image revealed by reading my friend’s written work. For whatever reason, I felt negated once again. Like an empty jar. A being transformed by experience. Purified in the heat of agony. Never again a citizen among those still dwelling in sunlight. But no worse for wear. Changed but no less alive.

To paraphrase Pink Floyd, I had become ‘uncomfortably numb.’

Comments may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

The Geauga Independent, P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Heartache 101”

by Cheryl Kelly

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Heartbreak...that awful gut wrenching, chest crushing, emotionally debilitating part of life that we all go through at one time or another. No one seems to be immune. We all experience it at different times in our lives and it just never seems to get any easier. One would think that as we get older and wiser and more in tune with the ups and downs of life, that we would be able to navigate and handle heartache better as we age. That as we are dealt heartaches, our coping skills get well honed with each passing year. Well, I’m here to say that either I missed the training on this, or I simply suck at handling having my demolished heart handed to me.

Life has a funny way of just sauntering in and reminding you of just how little control you have over things. Just when you think you have it all together, something inevitably happens to keep you in check; to keep you just out of reach from attaining that peace. It seems incredibly unfair. Like playing poker at the casino and being made utterly aware that there really is no win for you no matter how high your stack of chips, as the House always wins.

I remember my first heartbreak like it was yesterday. It was brutal and unexpected. I used to think that those types were the worst. The ones that come out of nowhere and blindside you knocking you out of sorts leaving you wondering what just happened. But as I have gone through life I find that almost always it’s the ones that you see coming straight at you that are the ones that really throw you for a loop. Those ones that you try your hardest to avoid, that you work hard to try to fix even though deep down you know it’s coming and you know that no matter what you do, you can’t stop it, so you hunker down and prepare as best you can.

I’d like to think that things happen for a reason. That perhaps a heartache or separation happens because you are meant to go in another direction. That you have learned what you were meant to and are better for it. It doesn’t make the pain any easier, nor shorten the time in your life that you feel sad and lost, but it does give you something to think about, something to consider outside of your own suffering. The challenge then becomes how to get yourself moving again, how to get yourself to a place of healing and how not to become bitter and cynical. That last one is a tall order...

There is such a fear in moving forward, or at least I find that to be true at times; something about the unknown that reminds us just how vulnerable we really are. To be able to let go of hurt and anger so it doesn’t cloud our judgment or weigh us down keeping us from achieving all that we want to with the next person, or the next situation. Unfortunately, at times we allow ourselves to be just stuck. Spinning wheels in the same muck simply because we don’t know how to move forward. We get so comfortable that the thought of starting over is overwhelming so we just continue to deal with mediocrity or unhappiness because the alternative at the moment is not an option. What a shame.

If you are fortunate enough to find healing after a heartbreak, let’s hope there is learning that follows. Learning and awareness of how not to find yourself in the same position again as who knows just how many heartaches a heart can take. Just like any other mistakes that get made in life, love is no different. What is that saying again about the definition of insanity? Something about doing something over and over again and expecting different results? True in love as well. Pursuing the wrong type of partner over and over, not changing your behavior in a relationship that in previous ones added to the heartache, or simply not listening to that inner self that hollers at you to wake up and make a move, this one is no good, are all things that should be given due attention; the subject matter for Heartache 101. I have to admit, I definitely missed this class…

“Christmas 2017”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Retirement.

Last year, I was unemployed on Christmas Day, but hopeful for a re-start of my career. I had many applications pending with a variety of local companies. My looming, personal mind-shift into obsolescence had not yet occurred. The paradigm established by over three decades of business operations and creative writing remained fully intact.

One year later, my world had been forever changed.

I woke up for the third time on Christmas morning, at half past eight o’clock. My body was already aching on the way out of bed. With a weighty plop of self, I fell into my designated chair. Festive lights were still on from the previous evening. Holiday cards adorned the entertainment center, my substitute for a household mantle. But the mood did not fit this joyful time of year.

While pondering coffee, I also considered the fact that I might never gain meaningful work, again.

A disability exam in November had highlighted many health issues in the way of my return to a purposeful existence: Left hip ruined from years of service, with my knees following suit. Hypertension out of control, vision failing, sleep apnea, general physical deconditioning, cardiac strain. The doctor seemed surprised that until my exit from a management position only a year before, I had been reporting for duty every day despite pain and fatigue.

Our family work ethic was strong. Enough that it literally carried me through the daily routine.

Such thoughts swirled in my head as I yawned away the cobwebs of slumber. But instead of taking me on the downward slope to depression, I felt transported to a different reality – that of writing creative prose. With my laptop sitting at the other end of our house, I chose my iPhone and its useful ‘Notes’ app for the purpose of composition. Words came from the ether while colored lights danced from the tree with seasonal cheer:

Here’s a beer for Santa

He came here in his sleigh

I know he must be thirsty

‘Cause he rode from far away

His reindeer might eat cookies

And his elves might drink the milk

But Santa wants a mug of brew

Sat on the windowsill

Here’s a beer for Santa

He’s here with winter white

That old man must be parched because

He’s been in the sky all night

His reindeer have no preference

And his elves will follow suit

But Santa wants a tall-boy beer

‘Cause he is feeling pooped

Here’s a beer for Santa

His gratitude is sure

Take out your finest Christmas mug

And give that man a pour

His reindeer fly like magic

His elves have made the toys

But for himself he wants a drink

Don’t disappoint our boy

Here’s a beer for Santa

He came here in his sled

No matter wind and weather

Dressed up in white and red

His reindeer need some water

His elves need Christmas cheer

But Santa Claus needs just one thing

A big damn mug of beer!

Here’s a beer for Santa

Now his worldwide trip is done

The toys have been delivered

The good kids are having fun

His reindeer are so tired

And his elves are at the end

Step up with a frosty mug of beer

And make Santa Claus your friend!

I finished my poem by the time coffee brewing had been completed. Outside, sub-zero temperatures helped maintain the Christmas atmosphere. Everything was frozen in a timeless hue of white. For a moment, I forgot about my infirmities. Cheerful thoughts held sway.

Briefly, I wondered over my choice of a beverage. Perhaps a stronger drink might be more satisfying on Christmas morning. Should I follow my own suggestion and join Santa with a cold brew of my own? Temptation made me weak with desire. I could almost taste the malted barley and hops. A fresh case of beer lay so close at hand. The household refrigerator was only a few steps away. I just needed to struggle out of my chair in the living room and get moving...

Instead, I brought up Davie Allan’s “Fuzz for the Holidays 2” on YouTube. The roster of songs played while I had a first cup of wake-up juice. This rocking holiday album had become a seasonal staple in the household, particularly because I provided liner notes for its original release.

My Black Lab was sleeping in front of the Christmas tree. He did not notice my episode of self-restraint. Or the music that played through our television. He had no interest in my quick creative project. Only in dreaming about his dog bone, wrapped under the tree.

It was a quiet Christmas morning in the household. And I felt glad that my personal muse had visited in the form of Santa Claus, himself.

Questions or comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published regularly in the Geauga independent

"The Art of Forgiveness"

by Cheryl Kelly

(12-2017)

I had a friend tell me once to write what I know. It was a simple statement, but very poignant. Passion and strength in one’s writing comes from the ability to draw from experiences and emotions felt personally and be able to let the reader, in turn, feel that pain, fear, love, joy through the words you put out. As a writer, it’s a scary thing at times because in order to reach someone on the level that you want, you have to be willing to open yourself up and display those parts of you that at times you would prefer to keep hidden. Honesty in writing is scary, but a necessity. I keep that simple statement in my mind at all times, write what I know. It reminds me that to be a good writer, I need to be human, I need to embrace the good, and also the bad, and be willing to share it with the hopes that someone will benefit in some way from it. So, here’s some of the bad…

I was scrolling through my Facebook account the other day and came across a video of a mother of one of the Sandy Hook Elementary School victims. Her 6 year old son was killed that horrible day and as she was sharing her memories of her little boy; his tiny soccer shoes still covered with dirt from the last time he played, a message he had written on a chalkboard in that sweet clumsy first handwriting of a new writer, and pictures of him with the sweetest smile, she was walking the viewer through her process of forgiveness. She was explaining how for years she had carried this weight around with her like a ball and chain. This anger towards the shooter and her grief over losing her child. That she had to one day just release it, to cut that chain so that she could move forward and she described the pure relief she felt when she was finally able to do that.

As she was speaking, I could feel myself just fill with sorrow; my chest heavy, my heart aching. Sorrow for this mother, this woman, this family, this child who was never given the opportunity to grow and become all he was meant to become. The pain I felt for her was so real because I could relate as a mother. The city I live in also experienced a school shooting and I could relate to the fear she felt, as I have felt that same fear. What I could not relate to, what I struggled with, was her ability to forgive. How do you do that? How do you find forgiveness for someone who took such a precious part of your life? As a parent, I couldn’t imagine losing my child, ever, especially in such a senseless way, and I can’t imagine how I would ever be able to be strong enough to find forgiveness for the person responsible.

I started thinking about forgiveness, the ability to forgive, and the healing benefits from it. I understand that carrying around negativity whether in the form of anger, hurt or fear is detrimental to oneself, however, I have to admit that I struggle with forgiveness. I’m not talking about mere grudges, as I’m not a grudge holder, I’m talking about those big things that happen in life. Those heartbreaking, devastating blows that cut you off at the knees and knock you out of the ring. That totally knocks the wind out of you to a point where you feel you will never breathe right again. Those moments that inevitably find their way into our lives at one time or another. How do you let those things go? How do you find that place in your heart that breeds forgiveness and allows you to move forward? I have to admit, I just don’t know.

I titled this piece the “Art” of forgiveness because for me, forgiveness is truly an art. It doesn’t just happen, you have to work at it, and not everyone is capable of it. For some, they draw strength from religion and that helps them work through the process. For others, it’s a matter of time. Time heals all they say and I suppose there is some truth in that, however, time can also mask the underlying need to really address something and not just forget. For me, oh how I wish I could say that I had a handle on forgiveness, but alas, I do not. I work on that every day, and some days I think I will get there and other days I just can’t so I put it on the shelf and say, “another day”. Maybe I’m just waiting until I learn the skills I need in order to properly deal with life’s low blows, but then again at my age, you would think I would have learned that by now. What I can say after watching that mother in that video, is that I believe she is right about one thing, negativity is a weight. Hurt, anger, fear, frustration – all emotions that create and add to that weight; a heavy ball and chain that hinders everything you do in life, and forgiveness, if you are fortunate enough to have learned, is the art of release.

“Dollar General Christmas”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Readers Note: The holiday season always seems to arouse stories of a personal nature. What follows here is another tale of life in the Ice household.

I moved to Thompson, Ohio in 2002.

Far on the east side of Cleveland, this off-the-beaten-path rural community was a perfect spot to rebuild life as my first marriage was falling apart. A place where I could slip into an interstellar wormhole of anonymity, while trying to preserve my dual careers of journalism and business management. Close enough to my family that contact was not difficult. Yet with a geographical moat between them and myself encompassing 9.7 miles of Geauga County farmland. A safe zone that let me rest in a kind of self-imposed isolation.

The only drawback by comparison with my former residence in Painesville was that suddenly, access to basic creature comforts were few. My new community did not have a gas station. Or a convenience store. Or a pizzeria. Only a long-closed IGA on the township square. And soon enough, an abandoned Ford dealership. Because I worked in Chardon and then Geneva, this change barely caught my notice. But the arrival of early retirement last year caused a personal reassessment like I had never known, before. Declining mobility and a lack of employment forced me to reassess personal priorities.

Suddenly, my comforting distance from the civilized world became a bit more burdensome to endure.

While time passed, someone had already reopened the slumbering IGA as Thompson Center Market. Then, they added a Master Pizza franchise. But the most stunning development in local history came early in 2017 when Dollar General placed a store on the square.

During three decades of my business career, DG barely garnered any notice. I first encountered one of their locations while visiting my parents in Philippi, West Virginia. Their efficient floor plan and merchandising were obvious assets. But I couldn’t imagine paying much attention. Retirement changed my perspective, however. I found myself visiting this retail oasis more and more frequently. Especially when snowstorms blanketed our roads with winter white. While perusing their aisles of stock, I noticed that other old fellows with canes and baseball caps were also busy shopping. And senior ladies with white hair and bulky sweaters.

My younger brother, a disabled trucker, had already become a convert after his own slide into disability.

In personal terms, I remembered that years ago, our father had begun shopping at a local Rite Aid drugstore, in the mountain country, because it was easier to navigate than their full-size grocery depot. He walked with two canes for support and had quite a chore loading goodies into his minivan. But the downsized venue helped him keep up with family needs while maintaining his dignity. Later, little bro followed in his footsteps after a stay at the Cleveland Clinic to battle serious health issues. He mirrored the strategy by switching to no-frills dollar stores in our area.

Then, with great reluctance, I came along from behind. Our new Dollar General offered less walking and a surprising selection of products at value prices. The items missing in comparison to larger stores were mostly those that I never shopped.

I had become a believer.

With the approach of winter and holiday themes, I visited our DG in search of Christmas gifts. Once again, their offerings were surprising and affordable. Plenty of candy, trinkets and household decorations. Everything was easy to reach. My new routine was set – cane in a yellow cart as I entered the lobby and then, off to snatch bargains. Conversation with fellow patrons and the store crew came as a bonus. Holiday cheer and savings ruled the day!

I only wished that they had an osmosis machine to fill jugs. (A popular alternative for folk out in the country with well water.) While loading my cart, I resolved to write the company a letter on that subject. Plus, I reckoned on suggesting that they ponder the vending of gas, beer and cigarettes like a Circle K in neglected communities such as our own.

Loading my truck with the groceries, I reflected again on Dad with his drugstore ration of pop, cookies, canned ham, sardines, pretzel barrels, chips and snack nuts. The family tradition seemed secure. For myself, everyday meals, household goods and even Christmas gifts all came from the Thompson Dollar General.

Retirement and the holidays had never felt so good.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us: at P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published regularly in the Geauga Independent

“Frankentruck”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Readers Note: I have observed in the past that the best newspaper columns seem to write themselves. What follows here proves that maxim once again. While doing research for a holiday manuscript, I stumbled upon a Ford truck advertised on Craigslist. The result is this extra journey through my family history, written while continuing to reflect on seasonal memories.

Three from one.

I have often observed that we three children of my particular Ice generation split our father’s personality into equal parts. Each of us seem to reflect a different portion of his total identity. My sister has his patience and faith. Thus, she is the rock foundation of our family group and a patient adviser. I inherited the creative bent and have been involved in writing and music nearly since birth. This has steered me toward a variety of projects that have, like those of my sire, failed in financial terms while providing much enlightenment and adventure. Finally, my brother reflects the rural ingenuity of a fellow raised on a farm by an engineering professor with a frugal disposition. As the youngest sibling, he refused to let birth order place him in the shadows of those who had come before. In particular, he displayed a keen ability to fix things with very little money. Once, he bought a Pontiac Catalina for $175 and then sold it for parts, after a long period of use as a daily driver, for over $300. On another occasion, he replaced the rear axle in a Galaxie 500 behind our home with nothing more than a pair of jack stands and a few common tools.

In other words, little bro always loved to tinker, like our dad. It was a useful talent to have in a family not blessed with great monetary resources.

I reckon that my brother has easily owned more than a hundred cars in his lifetime. Some provided stories that I used in my bygone column for the Geauga County Maple Leaf newspaper. In particular, I recall writing about a ratty, red Buick Regal that he drove in the 1980’s. As we were crossing Chardon on a run for supplies (likely potato chips and cold beer) the acrid smell of chemical smoke became alarming. Upon pulling over, he realized that the floor was completely rusted away underneath the rear carpet. This sheath of reinforced cloth had dropped onto the muffler system, which set it on fire. Fortunately, no injury resulted, or significant damage to the car. In personal terms, I was glad for another story to tell. He continued to use the Regal until a better alternative could be found.

At another point in our youth, both of us had Ford Econoline vans. His was more stylish, a dark blue ‘Super Van’ with power steering, an automatic transmission, and chrome bumpers. Mine was a one-ton cargo hauler with a steering wheel like a school bus and a three-speed manual on the column. (Three-on-the-tree.) It had been sprayed Army green, and came up for sale at an auction in Pennsylvania. The family nicknamed it ‘Godzilla.’ From the driver’s seat, it felt like navigating streets in a living room on wheels. But the utility of my van became so indispensable that my next vehicle was a full-fledged pickup truck.

Most famously, my brother once acquired a Ford F-250 from the mid-70’s which had been sold as a camper special. (Slide in campers having still been popular in those yonder days.) It needed a motor which he already had on hand from an old police cruiser. Restoring the vehicle also meant using junkyard body parts to save cash. The yield was a sturdy beast with plenty of horsepower but not much visual appeal. The vehicle was several different colors in hue. It got the nickname ‘Frankentruck’ as an honest tribute to its stout nature and homely looks.

Being teased about his ride only intensified a desire to be seen and conquer detractors. In a stunning moment of braggadocio, he took the truck from Chardon to our local, iconic venue, Thompson Drag Raceway (now Thompson Raceway Park). After a reception of loud guffaws and rude comments, he raced the F-250 and actually won in competition. Most satisfying was a match against a sleek Olds Cutlass with a big-block 350 V-8. He bested the desirable chariot easily. Something its owner took as a bit of an insult. Though merely a footnote in the storied history of this rural dragstrip, his escapades became an enduring part of Ice family lore.

With the passage of years, my younger brother became a professional driver and crossed the nation many times. Then, age and health issues took their toll. But the story of his pickup-of-many-colors was passed onward to generations of the family that followed. We would never forget the Frankentruck. Or such memories, which seem especially poignant around the Yuletide season.

Merry Christmas to you, my brother.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published regularly in the Geauga Independent

“Christmas 1981”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

The holiday season.

In most households, this point on the calendar is one which brings family members together in blessed moments of kinship and celebration. A pause from responsibilities that weigh heavily throughout the rest of a regular year.

But for the Ice household, in 1981, we were more black-and-blue than green-and-red.

My family had moved to central New York State a bit more than two years earlier, from Pittsburgh. Through an opportunity provided by Cornell University, I served an apprenticeship at the local Community Access Television studio, commonly known as ‘Channel 13.’ There, I hosted a rowdy, local Rock music program. It was an 18-month experience that set the course of a lifelong writing adventure following this creative tantrum. Yet it bruised egos and tested patience within our brood. It did not fit the template of a conservative, Christian home. With time and reflection, I understood the full importance of what had been done in the studio at 519 West State Street. But so many years ago, I still wandered in the aftermath of this brief moment in the spotlight.

My joy was muted by a pervasive sense of guilt.

The year had seen a national slide into economic recession. But more troubling were financial woes visited directly upon my family. Never before had I seen my parents struggle so mightily. As Christmas approached, it did so without any hope of gifts or a holiday banquet. Moreover, we were in the Empire State, far away from any other members of our tribe. Instead of twinkling lights and good cheer, we huddled amid emotional darkness. Food came from digging potatoes out of a nearby university research field. Muddy grocery bags of the spuds were stacked in our kitchen. We literally ate them three times a day. The occasional budget-brand macaroni and cheese dinner looked like gold at that moment.

I questioned myself many times over. Was it reckless pride that brought this judgment upon our group? Doubt and shame blended with worry about the New Year that approached.

Briefly, I grew distant from friends who had shared my television experience. Only one ray of sunshine seemed to permeate the familial cloud of doom – my sister’s meager income from a job with friends. She helped us survive when the foundation of our household shook with uncertainty. Then, her attention turned toward the holiday. I had expected us to encourage each other on December 25^th with kind words and little else. But she had another plan.

From her slight, weekly ration of coins, my sister afforded one gift for every member of the household. She showed uncanny skill in discerning what each of us would want under the tree. We literally had nothing else to unwrap. Yet these treasures comprised a yuletide bounty that has never been surpassed in the rest of my earthly days. After many years having come and gone, I still ponder the power of that minimalistic moment. With perfection, it mirrored the story of the widow who gave two mites as her offering, in Luke chapter 21 of the biblical New Testament.

Sister Becky sat quietly as each of us opened our gifts. Mother and Father were stunned and in tears. Brother was momentarily speechless, not in any way a typical reaction for that rotund fellow. My Christmas package was square and flat. Likely a welcome vinyl platter, I reckoned.

Upon opening it, I beheld the newest album by DEVO, our spiritual kin from Ohio:

New Traditionalists (Warner Brothers, BSK-3595)

1. “Through Being Cool”

2. “Jerkin’ Back ‘N’ Forth”

3. “Pity You”

4. “Soft Things”

5. “Going Under”

6. “Race Of Doom”

7. “Love Without Anger”

8. “The Super Thing”

9. “Beautiful World”

10. Enough Said”

Working In The Coalmine (EP-3595)

7” 45 rpm single

The album was a bit brooding and ominous. I reckoned they intended to make an artistic statement about the rise of Ronald Reagan, something much celebrated at church and on the paternal side of my family. But the subject of debate for the other half of our lineage and across society. Still, it was delivered with the group’s signature style of quirky, futuristic rhythms. Geek humor before there was a sort of coolness attached to such art. I reckoned it meshed nicely with my own ‘Punk’ ethos.

That memorable Christmas Day revived the joy of living in our family. A renewed tradition of genuine charity. A candle-flame never since extinguished. A spirit which has remained long after the memory of tearing into those colorful packages slipped away. No matter what winds of change and circumstance have brought us, the true gift from my sister, one of heart-to-heart affection, has endured. And indeed, resounded so strongly that with each voyage into this time of seasonal celebration, I think not of twinkling lights or theological traditions, but instead of that moment when she-that-had-so-little in my corner of the world, chose to share it with those who she loved.

Bless you, my sister. And Merry Christmas.

Questions or comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published regularly in the Geauga Independent

“Roundtable Redux”

It was a brisk morning at the McDonald’s on Water Street, in Chardon.

The Geauga Roundtable, a regular gathering of newspaper folk from the area, had passed into the realm of local history. But suddenly, after a late phone call from an old friend, the idea returned. Our venue was the original location – the ‘Golden Arches’ in our county capitol. Ezekiel Byler-Gregg, editor of the Burton Daily Bugle, had appeared out of the ether as I was working at my desk in the home office. Our conversation evoked memories of this bygone gathering. Soon, other friends involved in the wordsmithing routine also made contact. This return to friendly interaction over breakfast came naturally.

So it was that we met on a quiet day in December.

As in yonder days, Carrie Hamglaze, ‘Grande Dame’ of local journalists, served as chairperson of our meeting. She wore Irish green and Hilltopper red, as was her custom. Around the table sat Ezekiel and myself, along with Mack Prindl of the Parkman Register, Martha Ann Reale of the Newbury Siren-Monitor, and Sandy Kimball of the Claridon Claxon.

“Friends,” Carrie sang out with purpose, “I’d like to welcome you all back to our roundtable discussion!”

Martha Ann smiled at the group, wide-eyed through her cat glasses. “This is great, Carrie! Thanks for inviting us!”

“Yinz know it!” Mack sputtered. “I’ve been wanting to talk about Stillers football!”

“Please shut up!” Sandy groaned, smoothing her denim blouse. “Now I remember why we stopped having these meetings. Football, schmootball. You are such a boor!”

Ezekiel exploded with a belly laugh. “He can’t help it!”

“Six Super Bowls!” Mack roared. “Seven after this season!”

Carrie was perturbed. “Please, please! Let’s get back to business, shall we?”

“Didn’t we came here to talk about our newspapers?” I observed, pondering the circle of writers.

Carrie nodded with agreement. “Rodney is correct. We are gathered today for a bit of brainstorming about our publications. Who would like to begin?”

Mack frowned. “God help us, lets talk about anything but the Cleveland Browns!”

Martha Ann threw her pen. “Shut up, Pringle! Do you hear me?”

“That’s P-R-I-N-D-L!” he hissed like an angry snake.

Ezekiel slapped the table with one of his calloused hands. “I’m going front page with a story about local charities that help brighten the holidays for underprivileged people in Burton.”

Sandy nodded with satisfaction, while looking over her notes. “A worthy subject! I have an article about local churches in the township that host holiday dinners for the needy.”

My turn came before I was ready. “Well… I guessed on running a piece about Christmas in the time of the original Geauga Independent, so many years ago.”

“The Independent?” Martha Ann said quizzically.

“That’s right,” I answered.

“Never heard of that newspaper!” Mack fumed. “They don’t sell it in Parkman, that’s all I know.”

“It’s online,” I explained. “A retirement project. I left the Geauga County Maple Leaf in 2014. After my business career ended last year, I decided to create a ‘free speech portal’ which would serve as a virtual newspaper for the 21^st Century.”

“Very ambitious!” Carrie cheered.

“The original ‘Independent’ was published in Burton,” I reflected. “Apparently from 1883-1884. Then the ‘Geauga Independent’ took over in Middlefield, 1884-1885. The publisher was James A. Davidson. I found a listing on the Library of Congress website. Not sure if that indicated the full run of newspaper issues or merely what the library has on hand.”

Mack snorted with indifference. “A real paper is printed on… paper!”

“Well, yes,” I agreed. “Still, the industry is changing. I reckon the generation coming of age today will feel no particular affinity for printed matter as we have done. Everybody is on their cell phones today, more than at a desk, reading. Even old codgers like us!”

Sandy giggled. “It’s true!”

“The Maple Leaf was far ahead of the curve in that respect,” I said. “They’ve offered a state-of-the-art website for some time now, with a great presence on social media as well. That inspired me to modify my old dream of reviving the ‘Weekly Mail’ into a new sort of local publication.”

Carrie raised her Irish Tea in a toast. “Well done, Rodney!”

Mack shook his head. “So, is anybody covering the rally for President Trump next week?”

Sandy fretted, shaking her gray locks angrily. “Please! Don’t mention that name!”

Ezekiel coughed. “Local stories, Mack. Local.”

“That is local!” he shouted. It’s a local rally!”

Martha Ann bowed her head. “Mack, you are stirring the pot.”

Sandy raised her fist. “Obama! Obama!”

Carrie intervened like a schoolteacher. “Please friends, let’s keep our focus. We are together to talk about Geauga and compelling stories of our citizens.”

Mack turned red. “Okay, then is anybody covering the rally next week for the Stillers? Looks like another run for the Super Bowl, kiddies!”

Ezekiel grunted like a bull. “Martha Ann nailed it. You are an ass!”

I slumped in my chair. “Yes, this is just how it used to be, every month. I would sit here peering into my coffee while everyone argued. Thanks for bringing it all back home!”

“Rodney!” Carrie shrieked. “Let’s stay positive, okay?”

Mack took a deep breath. “I’m positive that this nonsense is making me sick at my stomach! Super Bowl Seven coming up, people! Here we go Stillers, here we go!”

“Mack, please!” Martha Ann pleaded.

“0-16!” he yelped. “Your Browns are a stain in the toilet bowl!”

Ezekiel stood up, suddenly. “I’m going for a coffee refill. Anyone want to join me?”

The table cleared without another word. Mack Prindl ended up sitting by himself. Carrie, Ezekiel, Martha Ann, Sandy and I stood in line at the front counter.

“Same as it ever was,” Sandy laughed. “I had forgotten how these meetings could raise my blood pressure.”

“Right,” I said. “But you know… I sort of missed them… strangely enough.”

Ezekiel nodded. “This is how we discuss ideas and get ready to write our final manuscripts.”

“Like a football scrimmage,” I added. “Or a regular workout.”

Carrie was pleased. “That’s it friends. A lively debate among peers. Welcome back to the roundtable!”

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published regularly in the Geauga Independent

“Pork Chop Conversation”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Resolved: Miller High Life tastes better at a late hour than in the light of day.

It was around 2:00 a.m. when I walked my Black Lab. I had fallen asleep too early, watching a Thursday Night Football game on NBC. My belly full of a meal made with fried pork chops and a can of pork & beans. With a beer chaser. ‘Chops ‘n Hops’ in the lexicon of Rustic Pines. Then, my sleep pattern became predictable. Up at 10:30, frustrated and disoriented. Cursing the night. Back up at 1:00 in the morning, somewhat more rested and resigned to fate. Coffee made as the pooch slumbered on our couch. Watching ESPN and pondering writing projects. Then, more brew.

I almost wished for snow. Something about the winter white always seemed to offer inspiration. As if it helped to focus my creative energy by burying the outside world in a silent sheath of slumbering crystals. But I hesitated to wish for colder weather. It would arrive soon enough without being summoned.

At the computer, High Life in hand, I began to write a newspaper column. But my plan was soon shattered as the phone began to ring. It was the landline, rotary device on top of the home office desk. I jumped from my chair, startled and unprepared. Then, I lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” I whispered.

“Rodney!” a raspy voice intoned. “I knew you were awake. I knew it because of your posts on Facebook. Can’t sleep, old friend?”

The caller was Ezekiel Byler-Gregg, editor of the Burton Daily Bugle. A mentor and fellow wordsmith. Since the Geauga Writers’ Roundtable had disbanded, years ago, I hadn’t seen him in person. My caffeine rush and beer buzz suddenly had a purpose.

“Zeke! How have you been?”

My friend laughed like an old farmer pondering his fields. “Not bad at all. But I miss our meetings at McDonald’s in Chardon. You know, old people hang out there in the morning, for breakfast. Something appropriate about old writers doing the same.”

“Right,” I agreed.

Have you heard from Carrie Hamglaze lately?” he wondered out loud.

“No,” I confessed. “Not since the end of summer.”

“Is she still in the local newspaper?” he asked.

My brain sputtered like a worn pump engine. “I don’t think so. Neither of us have any connection to that weekly, now. I started a new venture called ‘The Geauga Independent’ this year. It is a name taken from our history. The original ‘Independent’ was published in your community, over a century ago.”

“Really?” he thundered. “I’ll have to take a look-see about that for the Daily Bugle.”

“Since retiring last year, my routine has been fractured,” I explained. “No regular sleep schedule anymore. I am up when I want and in bed when I want.”

“Not a bad thing?” he pondered, laughing.

“Not bad,” I observed. “An adjustment for myself. This is the sort of life I expected in another twenty years or so, not right now.”

Ezekiel snorted with amusement. “I retired from the farm and made a whole second start in this newspaper thing, doggone it! You might surprise yourself, Rodney. Life can get rowdy at times.”

“Right now, rowdy is going up to Dollar General on the Thompson square,” I said. “You see old guys in their jackets and baseball caps, many using canes like mine. But they are a generation older. I don’t quite fit in the crowd. Not yet.”

“Still using the cane?” he asked.

“For over two years now,” I replied. “No doubt that contributed to the end of my regular career, though I can’t prove it as a fact. My knees are shot, left hip is bad. Arthritis everywhere. Yet somehow, my zest for living continues.”

“Hoo boy!” he cheered. “I’ve been mule kicked a few times and never let it slow me down. I don’t reckon that a man who lets life take away his joy is worth too much. I’m glad for every sunrise. Always glad to hear the rooster crow for morning.”

“Right,” I said.

“So what about writing projects?” he ruminated. “You doing another book yet?”

I sighed loudly. “Not right now. It’d be better to promote what I have already written. I was thinking about some loose motorcycle stories to post on the page for ‘Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond.’ Sort of a bonus for readers to enjoy. My Janis keeps watching ‘Sons of Anarchy.’ That show makes me think of my old biker stories from the 1980’s.”

“Well, that’s a thought,” he agreed.

“When I’m up at night like this, drinking beer, the wheels begin to turn. I tend to hammer out columns and stories before the rooster does his business. Then I sleep until noon. You can do that when you’re retired!”

Ezekiel let out a hearty guffaw. “Some things never change, boy! Are you drinking now?”

“Of course,” I admitted.

“High Life?” he asked.

“Yes,” I declared. “It is $7.99 in the bottles. More flavor that way. And at a price much lower than the premium brews. That’s another thing about being off the merry-go-round. I have to think harder about price and not just about flavor.”

“You used to drink that swill anyway,” he laughed.

“Well, sometimes yes,” I said. “My ex-wife never quite got that but there were moments when I would get in a ‘shit-bum’ mood, as my late friend Paul Race from New York would call it. Working class. Honest and pure, no pretentiousness. That’s when the Pabst Blue Ribbon would come out, or Genesee, Stroh’s, Busch or Miller High Life.”

My friend chortled to himself. “Memories! 12 ounces at a time!”

“Somehow, beer and creative writing go together,” I reflected. “It’s a truism.”

“Rodney, you are often nuts,” he wheezed. “But very insightful.”

“Thanks, compadre!” I said with gratitude.

“Well, it’s after three o’clock,” he coughed. “Reckon I better get some sleep. Don’t stay up all night at the computer, you hear?”

“That is what my ex-wife would say,” I remembered.

“See you soon, pardner!” he promised.

In the silence that followed, I looked around my desk. Empty bottles glistened with bubbling traces of foam. A lamp on top of the file cabinet flickered. My Black Lab was back in his spot on the couch, snoring. I stared at the landline telephone. Hadn’t that device been disconnected, years ago?

It didn’t matter. I was glad to hear from my friend in Burton. Also glad for a fresh bottle of Miller High Life beer, with leftover pork chops and beans.

Plus another ration of creative inspiration.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published regularly in the Geauga Independent